Calamity
by Sharubii
Summary: First fanfic, woot. After a young vermin finds himself unable to fit into horde life, he runs away and lets fate decide what's best.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

It was dark, dreary, rainy. Lightning curled out of the sky, illuminating the obsidian sky. Thunder pealed out shortly thereafter, background music to the lights dancing in the sky above Mossflower Woods.

The wind howled through the various boughs and canopies of the trees, whipped young flowers around in all directions, and forced birds into their nests. Inside Redwall Abbey, candles lit up and lightened spirits as animals gathered into Great Hall. The tables were laden with food of all sorts, the servers were busy pushing trolleys to refill empty platters, and all was merry, despite the weather that berated the ancient sandstone buildings outside.

"Now, now, everybeast," came a hearty voice, and every pair of eyes gathered in the feasting hall simultaneously turned to see the Abbot holding his paws up for silence. The jolly drone of happy creatures slowly ceased to a halt. Faces lit up with expectation at the interruption. Everybeast knew what was to come now.

Abbot Reidel slowly dropped his paws, tucking them into his old, worn green habit sleeves. A smile tugged at his lips, pulling up his grey whiskers. "Very good, very good," he murmured as the silence stretched out. He chuckled, and then went on. "Such a wonderful feast this has been, to welcome the Spring of the Triumphant Rain. I am sure you all would like to hear a story to conclude it?"

Intense whooping broke out from the Dibbuns gathered around, drowning out the jubilant cheers from the rest of the Redwallers. "Worra story, worra story!"

The smile creased on Reidel's features widened as he listened to the young Abbeybabes' chant. "Alright then, alright, everybeast, quiet down." He turned his head dutifully to a young female otter. "Ruppell, will you honor us this evening?"

Ruppell curtsied elegantly and somersaulted onto the center of one of the tables, where there was nothing obscuring the hardwood surface. "Of course, Father," she giggled, then cleared her throat.

Suddenly, Great Hall was completely silent, save for a few squeals from excited Dibbuns, whom were hushed hurriedly.

A clap of thunder resounded outside, and Ruppell waited stoically until it died down. She smiled wolfishly, roving her eyes to and from every creature, who in turn stared back, some wide-eyed with anticipation.

"This story happened long, long ago, even before me great grandsire was born. In fact, it may be back before the oldest of us here's great grandsire was born. 'Twas a time of great sorrow, a time of great despair, and war."

Outside, the lightening ripped the sky, and thunder crashed down. However, neither was enough to divert any creature's attention from Ruppell's story.


	2. Chapter 1

_Chapter One_

There was never a Warlord quite like Vartun. The weasel, with his enormous horde of vermin, wreaked destruction through every settlement they met, stealing everything of value and slaying the weak. The ones who surrendered, he made into slaves. Those who defied them, he had a special treatment for.

Vartun had a special selection of knives and daggers awaiting his use on a tough leather belt he always slung over his left shoulder. Everyday, he would take the belt off of the searat uniform he stole one day and shine every one of his blades.

And, with those particular blades, he carved up those who stood against him, piece by agonizing piece. The weasel had always loved to hear the agonized screams of his prisoners as he killed them, savored it really.

That was what gave him his title. Vartun the Slicer!

Now he and his horde plundered around the coast, always going south, south towards the extinct volcano they called Salamandastron. South towards a mountain full of great weapons, forged from the great, powerful Badger Lords that always succeeded one another. Oh yes, Salamandastron. Vermin everywhere had aspired to claim the legendary mountain stronghold, but that was all they could do. Aspire, that was all. None had succeeded; none had taken it as his own.

Vartun would be different though. Whoever he chose as his victim, in less than a moment, he was dead. The Warlord was powerful, merciless, pitiless, and bloodthirsty. He had the makings of the greatest vermin leader of the world. All who opposed him died by his blades. None had crossed Vartun twice, most had not even once. He was fearless, he was malicious, malevolent. There were too many words that could describe him. Too many words.

It was springtime, much to Vartun's distaste. The weasel sneered and spat contemptuously at every little flower he noticed, snarling under his breath about the too-peaceful atmosphere. However, despite his initial mood, the Warlord kept up a lively march, almost double-time. His dark eyes glinted greedily as he thought of the mountain fortress, the loot he and his horde could plunder, and the slaves he could capture. He would have to slay the badger occupying the area, but those hares that inhabited his target, they would make fine workers.

Vartun gritted his teeth, annoyed, as the labored breathing of some vermin tickled his ear. Without breaking stride, he whirled around, teeth bared, paw swung over his shoulder to the handle of a dagger, and snarled, "Wot, wot d'ye want, eh?"

Captain Heflo, a small, lanky rat, winced under the Warlord's penetrating gaze, gulping through his gasps of air. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

"Sir, Vartun, sir, I was jist wonderin', could we slacken up the pace a little? The 'orde's getting exhausted, sir."

Vartun, backpedaling furiously with ease, quickly swept his gaze around at the horde's ranks. His paw still clenched the dagger in the belt as he shook his head with disappointment. Heflo was right. The vermin that followed him, the vermin that he thought were so fit, so deadly, were having trouble keeping up. Every now and then, Vartun would see one or two in the front ranks trip over some protruding rock, some obscurity in the ground, or their own footpaws, and fall head over tail. As he continued to observe, they were trampled on, and left in whichever rank they stood up in.

The Warlord hissed something incoherent, and released his tight grip on the dagger handle. Sweeping oxygen deep into his lungs, he abruptly stopped backpedaling and yelled, "Halt!"

The vermin collapsed. Armor clattered together, setting up an awful din, as the multitude of rats, weasels, stoats, and ferrets fell upon one another, on the sand, on coarse grass, some even content with the sea's edge. Only Captain Heflo stood to attention, his spear held up, the butt end protruding from the sand.

"Heflo, git these slackers to make a decent camp, will ye? I can't stand my horde lookin' so messy an' unorganized." Vartun glared at the rat as he grunted and stood up to obey. The only reason he promoted Heflo as a Captain was because he had more brains than most of the vermin he had in the horde, that and the fact that he had unabated loyalty to the Warlord. Otherwise, the rat would have been just a pile of scrap to Vartun.

Eventide loomed in the skies by the time the horde set up camp. Fires dotted the area, surrounded by Vartun the Slicer's followers. Foragers were sent out, weapons were set aside or polished, and the vermin residing warmed their paws and cooked what little rations they had left, often fighting with one another. To Vartun, it was all normal.

As the foragers returned with meager findings, they were set upon, attacked and maimed as others tried to get to the food.

"Captain Heflo, break it up, will ye?"

The rat had only just sat down next to the Warlord. His face twisted slightly as he hauled himself up again, then he saluted weakly with his spear and dogtrotting toward the melee. "Oi, break it up, do y'hear me? Orders from Vartun!"

Vartun watched with no curiosity as Heflo brandished his spear and threatened to kill anybeast who did not obey. After a moment, his interest in the subject totally diminished, and the weasel lay down, his paws cradling his head. His eyes slowly closed, and he concentrated on the crackling of the fire, coupled with the background noise of fighting vermin, and the shouting Captain Heflo.

By the time he ventured a peek at the arguers, Heflo had gotten most of them in check. The rat was now snarling and poking the remaining whiners with his spearbutt. Hefting himself up, Vartun swaggered toward them, holding a dagger at the ready.

A young stoat was just starting to complain when the Warlord stopped right behind him. "But, Captain Heflo, I caught this 'ere woodpidden fer me mum and me, y'can't take it away."

"I've never met one in my horde who looked after 'is mum. Go on, then, why don't yer try an' take it back fer her, eh?"

The stoat went rigid with fear, the hairs on the nape of his neck standing erect. He turned slowly and gulped at the sight of Vartun. The weasel was carelessly flicking his blade in the air and catching it deftly by its handle, repeating the process again and again as he awaited the young vermin's answer. The whole time, Vartun's eyes were trained on his task.

"Uh, um, er, n-no thanks, Vartun, y'can 'ave it if'n ye wants," the stoat stammered, taking a step back to further the distance between Warlord and hordebeast.

Vartun tossed the dagger in the air once more, caught it, then laid his ruthless gaze upon the stoat. With a swift horizontal slice, the Warlord chopped off the whiskers from the stoat's right side and laughed. "Oh no, I insist, yew have it," he replied, signaling the woodpidgeon with his free paw. "'Tis nice to see somebeast carin' fer their mum." Vartun smiled his wolfish, toothy smile.

"Ah, er, we're fine, Vartun sir," the stoat squeaked, eyes wide with fear. "I was just goin' ta go on a diet, h'anyways."

Vartun's raucous laughter boomed across the beach. "Yew, a diet? Try figgerin' this out, mate: if'n yore already skinny as a twig, 'ow d'yer go on a diet?"

The stoat bit his lip and waited for inspiration to come to him. When it did not, he said the first thing that came to mind. "I dunno sir, don't eat as much?"

Vartun guffawed. "Aye, yore right there, stoat," he laughed. "What's yer name, eh?"

"Porran, sir," the stoat answered, shrinking under the Warlord's gaze.

"Well, Porran" – Vartun sneered his name – "Ye'll jist 'ave to go back to where ye foraged the food and git some more for ye an' yore pore ol' mum, eh?" He took a long stride forward, closing the distance between the two of them in one shot. The weasel's daggerpoint tickled Porran's chin. "Ain't that right, Heflo?"

Captain Heflo nodded furiously. "Aye, Vartun sir!"

Lightening-quick, Vartun sheathed his dagger, back into the belt that was slung over his shoulder. "Now git, Porran!" he snarled, and turned towards his fire. When the sound of pawsteps receded into the distance, the Warlord cocked his head back to Heflo. "I want that woodpidgeon fer food, d'ye hear? Make it snappish, now." With a sweep of his tail, he sauntered off to sit by his fire once again.

When Vartun was out of earshot, the rat Captain sniffed. "But I wanted the woodpidgeon. Ah well, he is the Warlord." Heflo shrugged, then snatched the plump bird to prepare it for roasting.


	3. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

Porran had traveled in a wide semi-circle since he left the horde camp. There was no way the stoat was going to find another woodpigeon tonight; the sounds of the other screaming foragers he had been with scared them all away. He thought of his fellow hordebeasts as shallow, numb-minded, and evil. Somehow, even though his mother had raised him in this exact horde, under the watchful eye of Vartun, and schooled in the way of bloodthirstiness and malice, the young vermin had never viewed the world as his peers had. He thought of other creatures as living beings, not target practice for his bow and arrows. He did not like to raid perfectly peaceful settlements just to find more riches. He did not think as the others had. He was not like the others. He did not like the others.

The only one he cared about was his mother. He had spent many a night wondering how she reared him, when there were so many dangerous beings living with her, in the same group, under the same cruel leader. He had gained a whole new respect for her, although she was indeed as evil as the others, as he mused alone. Ever since he gained this new respect, Porran had secretly admired her without the horde, Vartun, or even his mother knowing.

Along the way, he managed to dig up a few roots for his and his mother's supper. The full moon up above lighted his path as he hurried back to the vermin camp with food in paws. His stomach rumbled in protest, willing him to eat the roots now; however, Porran did not obey, stoically continuing to trot.

The moon was nearly at its zenith when the young stoat saw the first gleams of firelight twinkling on the horizon. He added speed to his paws, grunting slightly with the effort. In a few moments tendrils of smoke was visible above the fires, lifting up to nothingness as it touched the clouds looming low above.

On the fringe of the horde camp, Porran could see the withered form of his mother, bent double with age, sitting nearby a fire, alone. The other vermin generally avoided the old stoat, just because her son was more of a goody-goody than they preferred him to be. Porran shook his head in disgust, and came up to the old stoat.

"Oi, mum, I gots yer some roots to eat," he said, announcing his arrival. Without another word, he cast about for something to skewer the rations with. He settled for a thin piece of driftwood, and immediately cast the skewered vegetables over the fire. "Yew alright?"

Kedra, Porran's mother, cast a jaundiced eye about her son. Her lip curled up in a slight snarl as she spat into the fire. "Aye, I'm alright! Jist gettin' ignored by me mates again, that's all! Heck, why don't yer just go 'way an' wait for me t'be in one o' my bad moods, eh?"

Porran only grunted in reply, turning his face away so that Kedra could not see the hurt gleaming thickly in his eyes. He pulled the skewer from the fire and blew upon it. Once he was sure it was adequately cooled off, he passed it to his mother. "Awe, cummon mum, ye can't be so down in the dumps," he whimpered.

"Yah, try an' stop me." Kedra snatched the food away from her son, spat into the fire once more, and voraciously devoured the poorly-cooked roots.

Porran sighed heavily and stared into the bristling flames of fire. He knew that the old stoat hated him, but, for some reason, he could not detach himself from her. Sometimes he wondered if Kedra's life would be better if he were to leave the vermin horde for good. But then Vartun would probably go out after him. He knew the weasel's reputation for tracking; in fact, every creature who had heard of him would have definitely heard of his infamous ability. Although Vartun was corrupt, he was no idiot.

The stoat sighed heavily and tore his gaze from the fire, towards the Warlord's location. Through the heavy wisps of smoke meandering from nearby campfires, he could see the weasel's form, bent over the woodpigeon that was meant for Porran and his mother.

Porran found himself salivating as he stared at Vartun. Again, he averted his gaze, sweeping his eyes around at the horde. Most of them were asleep, and most of the remaining vermin were starting to nod off. Now that he thought about it, Porran had seen the Warlord's head bobbing rhythmically.

Stifling a yawn himself, he thought out the possibilities. If he were to steal out as soon as Vartun was fast asleep, then he could get a good distance before dawn the next morning. Of course, his mother would not go with him; that would be a sacrifice in itself, leaving his most cherished behind. And, as far as he knew, Kedra would not even notice her son was gone. In fact, she would be happy.

Porran rested his gaze on the old stoat. She was stretched out on the ground, snoring lightly. Her fangs still had bits of roots from her meager supper. Porran sighed, staring at her admiringly. At least she liked the horde life.

It was a good hour afterwards before Porran could hear Vartun snoring loudly from the opposite side of camp. His heart was heavy as he extinguished the fire he had been sitting at with a bucket of saltwater and gathered his things: a small scimitar, a carving knife, his black cloak and his belt. Thrusting the weapons into his belt, he donned his cloak and picked up a piece of driftwood. Then, backpedaling towards land, he scrubbed away his pawprints until he came away from the sands of the beaches.


	4. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

Creatures were stumbling about everywhere, trying to be at all places at once. In the orchard, vegetables and fruits were being gathered. In the kitchens, the cooks were hard at work making a large variety of delicacies: pasties, crumble, puddings, cheeses, breads, and more. At the pond, two creatures were hard at work, reeling in a giant fish.

Brother Renim heaved on the fishing rod he had clasped firmly in his grip. Pulling him back so that the mouse would not get flung into the water, Munglo the squirrel strained against the force that wanted to pull him in the water with the Brother.

"Is it coming closer, Brother?" Munglo grunted, peering over Renim's shoulder to get a better view of the pond.

"Afraid not, young lad," Renim replied, arching his back as the fish caught on his line gave another jerk. "This un's a fighter, to say the least."

"Pull harder, then! The Friar wants to have a fish to roast for the feast by noontide, and it's already nearly midmorning."

The Brother clenched his teeth and pulled backwards. He placed one of his footpaws against the bow of the boat the two companions were standing in, straining backwards with all his might. "Well, mayhap he'll just have to wait then – Oh, would you look at that! The fish is giving in, it seems."

Munglo smiled grimly and continued to pull Renim. "I hope so. My muscles are getting weary every second that passes."

"Well, how do you think I am, an old windbag like me, eh?"

"I don't know, Brother Renim, why don't we switch bodies for a season? You seem fit and fresh."

Renim sniffed and heaved on the line. "Wish I could, youngster. Wish I could." He grunted heavily and gave one last great tug to the pole, then the fish – a grayling – shot out of the water and landed at the pond's edge.

It was then that Foremole, the leader of Redwall moles, came trundling by. Breathlessly, Munglo whipped around and called to him, waving a paw, "Foremole, could you hold down that grayling until we get to you?"

The mole blinked his beady eyes once at the squirrel and waved a heavy digging claw back, putting on extra burst of speed as he went toward the flailing fish. "Boi okey, thoi gurt fish be a big 'un! Doan't ee worry naow, maister Munglo; oi'll 'old et down." With another spurt of power, Foremole ran to the grayling and blocked its path to the water, pushing it as well.

Grabbing an oar apiece, Renim and Munglo paddled back to dry land and hopped off, Renim bringing the fishing pole with him. When the grayling had leaped from the water, the line that was connected the hook to the pole had snapped. Together, they aided Foremole to push the fish to the entrance of the kitchens.

Friar Trepin was just putting the finishing touches on a batch of mushroom pasties. When he looked out of a window to check the time of day, the otter's eyes flew wide open in shock to see the grayling being lugged around by the three creatures. Immediately leaving his task, he bounded out the kitchen's entrance and slapped his rudder on the ground appreciatively as he scrutinized the fish.

"Ahah, wot a beauty this'n is! Renim, mate, Munglo, mate, and Foremole, ol' matey, ye caught this all on your own?"

Foremole tweaked his snout respectively to the lean chef. "Hurr, oi on'y helped to get ee gurt fish yurr, zurr Trep'n," he informed.

The Friar whistled in delight. "Well, 'tis still a job well done, mate. Come on then, the Abbey needs a fish for the Spring feast, eh?"

Together, the four beasts carried the fish inside. When they passed the door, willing paws were lent, making the workload for the friends lighter.

When they finally came to rest the grayling on a huge countertop, there were dozens of paws scrabbling and many creatures abandoning their work for a moment to see the colossal fish that had just been brought in.

"Whoa now, that's a big fish, so 'tis!"

"I'd stamp me rudder on it that ol' Brother Renim caught it!"

"Boi okey, that bee's gurtly huge!"

The sound of Trepin's rudder smacking on the ground brought everybeast to attention. "The feast's tonight, mates, get back to work or yore pals an' ye won't have anything to eat!" The Friar chuckled as every on of the cooks scrambled back to their duties midst startled cries.

He turned to Brother Renim, Munglo, and Foremole. "My thanks to ye all, now we'll 'ave a great feast tonight, mates."

Munglo flashed a smile at the Friar. "Come now, every feast you make is good, Trepin," he argued.

"Well, can't argue with that, eh?" Trepin patted the young squirrel on the back heartily. "You goodbeasts go outside and be about your tasks. I'll have this grayling unner my control and ready for the feast tonight, slap my rudder, so I will."

Calling goodbyes to the otter, the threesome shuffled out of the hot kitchens and into the peaceful sunlit lawns.

Brother Renim stretched his paws as he walked, addressing his two companions. "Well, it looks like it will be a successful feast tonight, isn't that right?"

Foremole's head bobbed up and down in agreement. In his rustic mole dialect, he replied, "Boi okey zurr, that 'twill be, ho aye!"

Munglo scoffed airily. "Better be. We worked our paws to the bone reeling that grayling in. I can't wait to see how it turns out, Brother!" His bushy tail flicked with excitement.

Renim chuckled. "Neither can I, Munglo," he admitted, casting a wink to Foremole. "Neither can I."

Foremole worked to suppress a fit of laughter.

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In Mossflower Woods, a cloaked form sprawled on the ground, breathing heavily. Porran had been running in a straight line since he had left the vermin camp, never stopping to take a break, to even catch his breath. He had to get away from Vartun and his horde before they came awake.

Even after the sun had broken the horizon to announce a new day, even after it started to get to its highest point, he continued running. Only after his own legs gave in from weariness and fatigue did he stop, collapsing on a bed of moss and half-conscious. The heaviness he felt in his heart for abandoning his mother started to crash down onto him, and tears formed in the young stoat's eyes. He sniffled softly and dug his snout into the moss he was lying on. Nothing had gone right since he left the horde. It was too late when he realized that he forgot to pack any provisions for his trip. It was too late when he realized that he had strayed too far from the direction he was supposed to be going in. It was too late to turn back. If he did, Vartun was sure to behead him.

The first thing he realized was a sharp blow to his left flank. He moaned in agony and glanced up. "Eh?"

His vision was blurred, and he could not see the creature who had struck out at him. Before he could blink away the tears that were still gathering up behind his eyelids, he received another blow to the other flank. This time he recoiled and groaned, rubbing his new sores.

"Yep, he's alive alright," a voice sneered. The poke of a weapon hilt met the side of his head.

"Would be better if 'e 'twas dead," another voice muttered. Following this came a chorus of agreement. Biting back a shocked yelp, Porran realized he was surrounded by at least threescore beasts. He assumed they were all armed.

The first voice chimed up again. "Well, best take 'im prisoner for now, see where the rest of his group is." Porran heard the sound of paws brushing the woodland floor. "Hoi, help me bring this'n back, mates!"

The stoat's eyes flew wide open as firm paws grabbed at his arms and hauled him roughly upwards. In a blubber of sobs and words, he pleaded his case.

"Please, mates, I didn't do nothin' wrong, 'ave mercy on me! I don't mean anybeast no 'arm, honest, honest!"

"Many a vermin have said that to the Guosim, but none have ever meant it, stoat!" Porran found himself staring into the hard, stern eyes of a shrew. "Now, where are your cronies, and ye'd better talk quick!"

Porran gulped audibly. "I already told ye, sir, I mean no 'arm, I 'ave no cronies, no nothin'! I ain't bad like the others, promise!" He stared, wide-eyed, at the shrew beseechingly.

The shrew narrowed his eyes in contempt, but seemed to consider the stoat's plea. Scratching his chin with his free paw, while the other held a rapier, he called to the Guosim behind him without taking his gaze off of Porran.

"Ahoy mates, d'ye think we kin trust this stoat?"

The shrews answered with gusto. "Nay, Log a Log, 'tis a vermin!"

"Don't ye go soft-'eaded with this'n, Log a Log, 'tis an obvious trick!"

Porran's heartbeat started to race as his fate became more and more defined as the shrews spoke their piece. Everybeast seemed to agree on one thing: the vermin cannot be trusted. More likely than not, they would kill him given the chance.

It took him a moment to realize he was hyperventilating. Biting his lip, he tried to calm down, still staring into the unblinking eyes of Log a Log, who, after hearing the Guosim's remarks, went deep into thought; the shrew chieftain's eyes were misted over as he continued to stare into Porran's eyes.

Finally, the shrew tore his gaze from the stoat's, towards the other waiting shrews around them. Without turning back to look, Log a Log pointed a paw towards Porran.

"Do ye all remember the story of the makin' of Redwall Abbey? The fall of a wildcat, Tsarmina, was required. Now, she had a brother, Gingivere. He was not like the rest o' them; in fact, he was kind, carin', and helped the woodlanders. Do you think there can't be any more of those types of vermin about, that they became some kind of extinct species?"

A heavy silence followed, and nearly all eyes turned to Porran, who drew his breath in sharply. His fur started to prickle, and he felt uneasy, squirming in the grasp of the two shrews that held him up.

Finally, one of the shrews broke the silence. "Aye, guess yore right, Log a Log. But, how do we know this'n is one o' those?"

"Simple," the chieftain replied. "Everybeast, paws off yore weapons, cross yore arms across yore chest."

Everybeast was reluctant to do it, but, after much dark murmuring and uneasy paw movements, all the shrews obeyed their leader. Every pair of eyes now were on Porran, eyeing him tensely as Log a Log waved to the two shrews who were holding him captive. They let him go and backed away hurriedly, folding their arms over the other across their chest as they did.

"Now then, yore free, mate. We're not gonna do no 'arm to you, see. Our weapons are in their sheathes, and we can't reach 'em with our paws like this."

Porran gazed about, looking at all the shrews about him. Each one seemed more tense than the last he looked at.

"Look, I'm not gonna do anything to 'arm you," Porran promised, unbuckling the belt off his waist and laying it on the ground. Still thrust through it was his scimitar and dagger. "That there's me only weapons."

The shrews were clearly hesitant to leap up and believe him, so he flung off his cloak and threw it on the ground before him, right next to the belt. "There, d'you see anything else on me, eh? I'm not about to 'urt nobeast, trust me!"

Log a Log inspected the young stoat from bottom up, circling around him repeatedly. Then he inspected the cloak, taking his paws from their position to spread the cloak out. The black fabric coughed up plenty of dust, but other than that, nothing came out of it.

"Well, stoat," Log a Log murmured after a long moment of speculation, "I guess we kin trust you on yore word… For now. Where are ye going?"

Only when Porran exhaled in relief did he realize he was holding his breath from the tension. "Anyplace away from the horde I ran away from," he answered.

"Horde?" The shrew chieftain's stern eyes settled on Porran abruptly, burning a bit at the word.

"Um, um, yessir, but they were on the beaches away from 'ere, an' I covered my tracks nice an' good-like, as best I could. I promise on me oath, sir!"

Log a Log sighed. "Well, there's naught we can do to make sure o' that, unless we go to the shores to find out ourselves. So, stoat, ye said you were running away from the horde. Why so?"

Porran fidgeted a bit. "'Cause I didn't like 'ow the others treated otherbeasts, sir," he said. "I don't like to 'arm nobeast, but Vartun – he's the Warlord – forces me to."

"Aye then. I'll send two of my shrews to take ye to Redwall Abbey, where ye'll be safe under the Abbot's watch. An' we're trustin' ye on yore word, stoat, so don't go escapin' without somebeast to keep an eye on you. Agreed?" Log a Log stood up and turned towards Porran, holding his belt and his black cloak in his paws.

Porran received them, buckling on his belt again and slinging the cloak loosely over his shoulders. He clasped paws with Log a Log, grinning gratefully. "Aye, sir, thankee, sir!" he exclaimed, shaking the shrew's paw with gusto.

"Hoi now, don't wring my paw off," Log a Log chuckled, pawing his rapier hilt, just in case he had made a mistake. "Remember, some of us still consider ye as a bad vermin, evil, conniving."

At once, Porran released his grip. "Oh, er, sorry there sir." He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly and coughed politely. "By the by, name's Porran."

Log a Log nodded and waved to a few shrews. "Nice t'meet ye, Porran. I'm Log a Log, chieftain of the Guosim, Guerilla Union of Shrews in Mossflower as it stand for. These three'll be yore escorts."

The three shrews introduced themselves while Porran was tightening the cloak around his neck. Their names were Nurano, Welfin, and Veria.

The young stoat shook his paw with each of the three, observing that they were still uneasy about him. Only moments later, they were striding off through the Mossflower Woods towards Redwall Abbey, where Porran was surely destined to go.


	5. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

The steady dripping of water falling off of paddles could be heard near the river, where several of the Guosim's logboats were moving. The Log a Log had left a quarter of his shrews back where he had found Porran, to tell the returning escorts where the rest of the party had gone.

The shrew chieftain sat in the prow end of his logboat, which was in front of the rest, and paddled leisurely. His mind kept wandering back to the young stoat that was now traveling to Redwall, and the three shrews he had sent to go with him. Surely, he was not evil like the rest, and he had not made a mistake? Log a Log set his jaw and nodded to himself firmly. No, he could not have made a mistake.

A voice from directly behind him disturbed his reverie. A male shrew, young in seasons but still tough and lean, started to question Log a Log. "Sir, why did ye let that stoat go with Nurano and the rest to Redwall? Vermin are vermin; he could have been pretending to be good, so that we could all be deceived into letting him go."

Log a Log shook his head. "Nay, young one," he said, keeping his eyes trained on the River Moss. "'Twas said to me by Martin the Warrior that he would be comin'."

The young shrew's eyes widened in disbelief. "Martin, as in, the spirit of Martin the Warrior? He's talked to ye, Chief?"

"Aye, so he has. Do you know what he told me?" Log a Log inquired, tilting his head back slightly so that, from his peripheral vision, he could look at the shrew. After a brief moment, he trained his eyes back on the water.

The shrew seemed baffled. "No, I don't know, sir."

Log a Log chuckled and continued to paddle. "Well, this is exactly what he told me, young 'un.

"When midmorn comes to welcome noon,

And footpaws drum their dirge,

Where velvet greens on ground lay strewn,

An ally ye will discover.

Judge him not by his hide,

Or the way he speaks his tongue,

Receive him with heart opened wide,

And lead him to the Abbey."

The young shrew was silent for a moment, then grunted in response. He stared out over the water, where his paddle made ripples in the surface. "Well, guess that makes sense," he muttered. "We were marching at midmorning, and I'll guess that the velvet greens were the moss that stoat was layin' on?"

"Correct." Log a Log smiled and chuckled. "I just 'opes that the good creatures at Redwall will make him feel at 'ome. 'Tis an 'orrible life for a goodbeast if he's not liked by anybeast else, eh, young 'un?"

The shrew behind him nodded agreement, even though he knew the Log a Log could not see him. "Yes, sir!"

---------------------------------------

Porran stood gaping at the sight of the huge monolithic form of Redwall Abbey. His escorts, the three shrews Log a Log had appointed for the task, abandoned him on the path as they sauntered up to the big wooden front gate and knocked haughtily on the huge timbers. Taking a pace back apiece, they stole a quick peek over their shoulders to see that the young stoat was still back on the path.

For a moment, nothing happened, and the four beasts stood in front of the Abbey in silence. Then, with a heavy creaking noise, one side of the gate swung slowly open to reveal the inner grounds of the Abbey.

Porran squinted his eyes as he leaned to the side a little. The homely face of a mole was standing at the door. But, surely such a creature could not open such a hefty gate! The stoat felt himself unbalancing, and quickly regained his former position, still staring incredulously at the mole. Maybe it had friends with it?

Porran's muse was broken as Veria called over her shoulder to him. "Hey, you comin'?" The shrews were making for the opened door at a leisurely pace.

The stoat grunted in reply and scurried to catch up to them.

The mole touched his snout with a heavy digging claw and bowed his head to the shrews. "Hurr, did you'm guddbeasts get lost?" he asked, his smile evident on his homely features.

Welfin, the youngest of the three, shook his head. "No, sir, we're just escorts for him." He nodded back at Porran.

One glance at the young stoat had the mole's eyes flying wide in alarm. He swung his head over, back to the three shrews. "Nay zurrs, whoi did you'm bring back yon gurt stoat?" he asked, shuffling back a step. "Stoats be varmints, zurrs!"

Welfin sniffed. "Yes, we know that, but Log a Log has put his trust in this 'un. I don't know 'ow he would ever do that, but, he's our Log a Log, he knows best." He set about adjusting his colorful headband, refusing to say any more about the subject.

The mole hesitated a bit, then relented. "Burr then, cumm on in 'ere. Oi'll interrduct ee to ee Father h'Abbot." He turned on his paw and ambled into the Abbey.

The three shrews looked back to Porran. "After ye," Veria said, gesturing inside. Porran hastened to obey; as he staggered past the gate, he could feel three pairs of eyes on his back, and he gulped.

The four followed in the mole's wake until they reached the orchard. Porran's eyes glittered as he scrutinized the mounds of fruit, vegetables, and flowers in bloom in the huge gardening area. He felt saliva start to dribble down his chin, but stopped himself hastily, forcing himself to look down at his footpaws. He had to abandon the bad habits he had picked up from being with Vartun's vermin horde fast.

The mole waved a paw at the visitors, indicating they should stay where they were. He then strolled to a wiry old otter and exchanged a few words with him.

The otter, his fur aging and turning grey, stood up, adjusting his small spectacles so that it perched more comfortably on his nose. He swept his gaze from the shrews to Porran; then he started to walk, straight towards the stoat.

Porran gulped nervously, taking a staggering pace backwards as he stared at the otter. His paws tingled as the instinct to grab his scimitar and dagger came into effect, but he pushed it away hastily, not wanting to make a bad first impression upon the Abbeybeasts. Moreover, he did not want to anger the shrews of whom were glowering at him, not three feet behind.

The ancient otter came a hairsbreadth from Porran and began examining him closely, his whiskery face almost touching the stoat's. "Tell me sir, where are you from?"

Porran took another step back to bow his head without colliding with the otter's. "I'm from an 'orde that travels far from here, sir," he explained, then hurriedly put in, "but I don't like the way they think, which is why I came 'ere, ran h'away."

The otter nodded curtly, stroking his chin with a paw. "What's yore name, son?"

Son? Was this otter crazed or something? Porran was not his son, nor was he even in the same species. Nevertheless, he answered politely, "Porran, sir."

A stiff, tense silence followed. The otter broke it only when he smiled kindly at the stoat. "Well, Porran Sir," he said, a twinkle in his eye, "I'm the Father Abbot of Redwall Abbey. Welcome to my domain, and I'm sure your presence will be welcome by allbeasts, including myself." He put out a paw. "Father Sefro," he introduced.

Porran's face was the picture of astonishment. He gingerly clasped Sefro's paw in his, and shook it. Sefro surprised the young stoat by grasping his paw firmly and shaking it back, quite heartily.

Sefro winked at Porran. "So, y'must be hungry, mate," he rasped. "Why don't we go to the kitchens and get something to eat?" He swiveled his head and slapped his rudder against the ground. "And of course, to our three escorts, you'll be joining us I hope?"

Nurano, usually a quite, strange one, piped up on his companions' expense, as well for himself. "Aye Father, that'd suit us fine!"

Inside the Abbey kitchens, Munglo was idling away, twirling his tail while leaning over a counter, staring out into the midmorning day. He had been dismissed from the kitchens by Brother Renim and Friar Trepin. However, the young squirrel did not want to go away; he loved the scents of the various goodies baking, cooling, and cooking too much to leave so soon.

The sight of a stoat swaggering doggedly after Abbot Sefro, who was at a swift walking gait, sent him dashing to the kitchen's entrance. Opening the door, he waved his paws in the air, calling in alarm, "Father, there's a stoat following you, can't you see?"

Sefro chuckled and waved back with a leisurely air. "Yes, I know Munglo. His name's Porran, hungry for some food and Redwall hospitality."

All Munglo could do was gape.

As the young stoat passed the squirrel, he turned and bowed his head swiftly. "I'm not like the rest, mate," he reassured him, "I swear my life by it, 'onest!"

"Hoi, you're blocking the entrance, Porran!"

Porran peeked back and chuckled sheepishly. "Er, sorry there," he called to the three shrews, and hurried to where the Abbot had situated himself. The Guosim shrews shuffled by Munglo in his wake, calling curt greetings to the young squirrel.

Yet, all Munglo could do was turn and gape at the stoat.


	6. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

The enraged cry of the weasel tore through the air, ripping through the once calm atmosphere of the vermin camp. It was louder even than the waves pounding mercilessly on the soaked shore, not ten feet from the fringes of the camp, and rent the air in a broken dissonance that sent birds flying off in utter alarm.

Vartun the Slicer was mad.

His mouth was rimmed with froth as he pounded madly about the shore, tramping on the tails, paws, and even snouts of waking vermin who were unfortunate enough to be situated in the Warlord's path. His eyes searched madly about for one individual. As they darted back and forth along the campsite, his paws clenched and unclenched furiously, as the weasel tried to sedate his temper.

Drawing from his belt one of his daggers, he bore his eyes onto the old stoat Kedra. Roughly hauling her up, only a hairsbreadth from his snapping fangs, he snarled at her in his rough, menacing voice, "Where is that dratted son of yours?"

Kedra shrugged, her shoulders trembling as she stared into the furious eyes of her leader. "I know not, Lord. While we was asleep, 'e must've run off!"

Vartun's reply was scathing. "Run off, eh? Run off, how? Run off, when I, Vartun, am leader of the 'orde? I, Vartun, who had never let an escapee go wid their lives?" He bared his fangs viciously and clenched the dagger's hilt tighter. "Well?"

Kedra was literally trembling from ear to tailtip. She licked her suddenly dry lips, answering as pleasingly as possible to Vartun, hoping to veer his temper off from herself. "Lord, yes, 'e did run away, but I know ye'll be able to catch him, like you did all those others. I swear it by my loyalty to ye!"

Abruptly, Vartun released his hold on the old stoat, leaving her to fall flat on her rump and scramble upwards again, still shaking. He tested his dagger's edge nonchalantly, his mood suddenly changed. He eyed Kedra, pursing his lips like a babe who could not get a treat before suppertime. "Yeah, I hope so," he muttered, still pouting slightly. Vartun's eyes traveled downwards slowly back to the dagger, and he watched the reflection of his face bounce around as he twisted the weapon slowly. The midmorning sunlight poured onto the shining metal as well, casting glints of light on the burnished dagger blade.

"Tell me, Kedra, was it? How loyal are ye to me?"

Kedra was taken slightly aback by the question. She stopped herself from biting her lip as she replied shakily, "I serve only you, Lord Vartun, sure as sun turns to night."

The weasel flashed a smile at Kedra, nodding with utter approval. His eyes twinkled as he nodded. "Aye, ye've been with me since I became Warlord, eh, stoat?" he asked. When Kedra nodded vigorously, he chuckled. "Well, you know what they all say." He brandished his dagger lovingly. Then, with one lightning-swift movement, he stepped forward and ran it through the stoat's heart in one great thrust. "A dead beast can never betray a great leader." He laughed menacingly and withdrew the blade, blood glistening off of it. Vartun watched idly as the slain body of Kedra fell backwards lifelessly, her eyes forever open in shock.

"Well now, anybody else want to cross me?"

An icy silence fell over the camp.

Vartun wiped his blade against the rags of a nearby rat. "Good." He whipped his head around, searching. There was still no sign of the stoat Porran, and that made Vartun's lips slobber a bit of froth once again. Narrowing his eyes, he swiped an arm across his mouth, flicking the foam from his lips. Sheathing his dagger back into its slot in the belt slung across his shoulder, he whirled upon the horde with renewed vigor.

"Ye all are part of my horde, eh? Wot happened to the bloodthirsty, savage killers I used t'know? What I sees in front of me is a big group of babes, slobbering, slack-jawed babes wot don't know plunder nor killin' no more! All of ye have been lazy, the whole lot, an' I'm not about to let that slide." He cast about until his penetrating gaze rested upon Heflo. "Git these slackers into line; crack their backs, smash their skulls, I don't care! Break camp, post-haste, an' git to my back afore I slay the whole lot of ye!" During the last couple sentences, he addressed the whole horde. Seeing as Vartun was in a dangerous mood, the vermin scrambled away to obey him, with the rat Captain Heflo watching them maliciously, waiting for anybeast to stumble or fall.

Moments later, weary with the forced speed of breaking camp, the vermin horde stood to stiff attention, striving to control their breaths as they half panted, half breathed normally in the presence of the Warlord. Vartun eyed them with clear disdain.

"Yore all outta shape! This isn't the 'orde I used t'know." He growled at the front ranks of vermin, and indicated his belt. "An' I thought I could measure up to the great Ferahgo of ancient times, weasel assassin and Warlord!" The muscles underneath his searat clothing flexed as he clenched his paws tightly. "If I have such a buffoon-filled horde, then 'ow kin I compare to him, eh? Yew answer me that!" He stamped his paw against the ground, and sand flew everywhere, showering a couple unfortunate vermin.

Vartun continued with his speech. "An' now, a traitor has escaped! Wot's become of you, eh? Are you all going to become traitors? Mutineers?" The horde knew better than to answer. When there was a long stretch of silence, Vartun continued. "I'm going to get this traitor, Porran, was 'e? I'm going to git him back here and make an example outta him! Never again will the vermin of Vartun the Slicer desert me, for your fears will be too overpowering to even have the thought cross your mind." He cast a jaundiced eye about the sweating vermin. "Now, we'll tackle that Salamandastron fortress later. Now, we go after that stoat deserter! On the double, we will march. Where's Yinta?"

A nervous shuffling of paws followed, then the yelps of vermin as their paws were treaded upon carelessly. Shortly, a thin, scraggly fox emerged from the group, snaggle-toothed and unkempt of fur. Her left ear was nicked from an old injury.

Yinta bowed her head. "Yew called, Lord?"

Vartun sniffed airily. "Yes, I called," he growled impatiently. "Ye're me best tracker. So, do your job: Git tracking!" He indicated the wide area of land with a sweep of his paw, forming an arc from shore to shore.

Yinta nodded solemnly. "As ye say, Lord." Without another word, she bent nearly double and began examining the ground.

Vartun sneered. "And you'd better do it right."


End file.
